Cane Training For The Blind

CANE TRAINING

Overwork School for the Blind

Philadelphia, PA

1965

Red robins, daffodils, crocus: the first signs of spring for most people.  But for those of us who grew up near the Overbrook School for the Blind, there was another sign of spring: the first day of cane training.  In the early spring, each year, on the first nice day, we would hear the tapping of the cane on the sidewalks, followed by the crisp, authoritative commands of “right, no that’s your left.  Go right. Slower, not so fast. Pick yourself up.”

And then I would spot them: a young boy, maybe six, and an adult trainer trailing close behind him. The man would have one hand on the boy’s right shoulder, guiding him gently from the back.

Our neighborhood was old. So many of the trees had grown so much that their root system emerged under the sidewalk, causing most of these slabs of concrete to protrude inconsistently. This caused a challenge to all new students.  How do you blindly maneuver through a course that has so many obstacles?

The boy would fall down as my family and I watched him from our front porch.  It would be painful for all of us.  This boy would cry and want to give up. The instructor would help him up and set him back on course.  And we would grimace in sorrow and pity as the kid tried again and then fell again.

“No” said the instructor, “you have to pay attention. Make short gestures.  Keep your cane closer to your feet and then you’ll feel the bumps”.

It was hard to watch in the early spring. But as the season progressed, so did the student’s skills.  And eventually, he would figure out his stride and he would begin to master the cane.  And as he improved, we would sometimes call out words of encouragement. Or we would clap for him. And he would raise his cane in appreciation, not always sure exactly where we were. His head swiveled as he tried to locate our sounds.

By the end of the summer, he would finally be on his own.  The guide would walk ten feet behind him as he confidently walked the distance by himself. And when he reached this level of skill, we knew we would never see him again.  His training was complete.

And as this season ended, we knew it wouldn’t be long before we heard the first sounds of next spring and a new child, learning to be independent.

Montezuma

In the Halls of Montezuma
Our Home in Philadelphia, PA

Philadelphia, PA

1965

I decided to ask my siblings to write their stories of our childhood.  Our mother had just died.  Her parents were immigrants and we had very little information about their childhood.  My father’s family was dying off.  And so was all of our oral history.

“If we all write just 10 stories each, we could have 70 of them”, I tell them, hoping to ignite some excitement around my very clever idea.  They show absolutely no interest in my request.  They weren’t just indifferent to the project.  They thought it as stupid.

“You don’t even have to type the stories, I will do that for you and I’ll do all of the formatting. I will put a book together for all of us to have,” I pleaded with them.  They continue to be unmoved by my request.

“It must be nice to have no kids.  When you don’t have kids, you have time to waste on stuff like this, said one sister.

I never got any takers to write even one lousy story.  But occasionally, one of them would call me and say,  "hey are you still writing that stupid family book?  I have a story you could write, remember when…” and then the story would be retold to me no matter how much I pleaded with them to write it down.

They didn’t. Not one of them.  But consistently a few of them remembered one particular story.

It was 1965; our uncle, an officer in the Marine Corp, was serving a tour of duty in Viet Nam. We worried about him every day.  We prayed for him.  And every Friday, we added his name to the long list of servicemen who got letters from the students in our grade school.

At the same time, someone gave my father a cheap, play-by-numbers, electronic, squeaky keyboard.

We put it in the hallway and we all attempted to learn how to play it. I still remember Mary Had A Little Lamb: 321 2333 222 333 321 2333 322321. Sometimes I would get the threes and the twos mixed up.  That really messed up the flow of the song.

We learned Happy Birthday and Twinkle, Twinkle and Oh Susanna.  We all seemed to have a particular favorite.  However, we all felt a great need to learn the marine’s anthem, In The Halls of Montezuma.  We played that song too frequently and too poorly. It was dreadful but we played it with a thought that this act alone would bring our uncle home safely.

As my siblings reflected on this story, they all remembered how dreadful the others played. Individually, they all bragged they were the best.  But that is a ridiculous thought because, really, truly, I was the best.

A Bit of Beauty From My Garden

My back yard: I spend hours in my garden during the summer and I spend hours during the winter, missing my garden.

New Year's Eve- Times Square

New Year’s Eve- Time Square- 1978

My first year out of college was fun and freeing but it was also confining.  I loved being an adult now.  And having an income, as meager as it was, was so liberating.  But being responsible and confided to a 40 hour a week obligation did require an adjustment to my free spirit.  It limited my spontaneity.  It required me to get to bed at a reasonable hour each work night.  I had to iron my blouses now.  And panty hose ate up too much of my expendable income.

So my free time was cherished and I tried to make every minute count.  So when I got an invitation to spend New Year’s Eve in Time Square, I jumped with excitement.  Yes, I wanted to bring in the New Year at the most happening spot in the world.  Yes, this was one cool idea, an adventure worth bragging about.  “Yea, I was in Time Square on New Year’s” I would tell people nonchalantly as if to convey, where else would you expect me to celebrate the New Year.

So I packed a backpack and hopped a train to Penn Station.  I made my way to my friends’ apartment.  It was a one bedroom apartment and three of them shared the place.  The twin sisters shared the bottom bunk and Judy had the top bunk.  There was a fold out table in the kitchen.  And when the table was out, it blocked the door to the bathroom.  So if someone had to use the bathroom when we were eating, we would all have to get up, grab our plate and grab one of the bowls of food as well.  And someone dropped a leaf of the table.  And we all rearranged ourselves to let the other person out and then we waited until she finished in the bathroom.  And then she came out and we rearranged ourselves again.  And none of us cared about this inconvenience because that is the price you pay to live and play in this great city.

So now it was time to make our way down to Time Square.  Someone asked “how much money are you bringing.  How much money should I bring?  Should I bring it all?”

I offered a bit of caution.  “Only bring as much as you can afford to lose.  I’m not bringing my train money with me.  There are going to be lots of pick pocketers in the crowd.”  Well, you would have thought that a great prophet had just spokes because my line was quoted several times in the next hour as we all got ready for the big event.

It was cold and we bundled up and then drank too much blackberry brandy.  We had convinced ourselves that this drink would keep us warm, which it didn’t.  It only served to get us drunk quickly and then we had to go to the bathroom which was not available to us.  But this major inconvenience did not curb any of our drinking.

Crowds had already gathered.  The streets were crowded. Stores were crowded.  And excitement filled the air.  And my group of friends strutted through life with a sense of coolness that we thought we had earned.  Watch out Manhattan, we had arrived.

We made our way to Time Square and we were sandwiched in amongst thousands of people, most of them very, very drunk.  People were smoking pot.  Hustlers were luring drunks in to their card tricks and taking their money.  Merchants were selling knock off bags and scarves and hats.

We found a group of guys who shared their whiskey with us.  And after a few shots, some of us were trading shots for kisses.  And this arrangement seemed to be agreeable with all of us. We were having a good time.

The ball was going to drop in fifteen minutes and that is when a fight broke out.  I looked to my left and four or five teenage boys were rolling on the ground, wrestling each other.  The crowd forced an open gap to get out of the boys’ way.  The boys shot up and startled to run.  And then I felt someone push me and I heard the woman beside me scream, “Get him. He took my necklace.”  The woman was hysterical.  The boys had eyed her beautiful, expensive multi-diamond necklace just a few minutes ago and then they faked a fight as a way to distract all of us to pull off this perfectly executed robbery.  And I had just noticed her necklace, just moments before it was stolen. It sparkled so much under the street lights that it caught my attention. And now it was gone.

Now this woman wanted me to run after them and get her necklace back.  She was shaking and bordering on shock.  I told the woman that I would go find a police officer.  But I was not going to risk my life over this woman’s diamond necklace.  That’s why you have homeowner’s insurance.

When I didn’t move right away, she turned to the others in the crowd and demanded, “Go get them.”  But like me, no one complied.  But a police officer did arrive on the scene and he moved the lady out of the crowd.  But her anger and her disappointment in us lingered in the air.

I don’t remember watching the ball drop.  I was still absorbed by the robbery.  I couldn’t believe the thoughtlessness and selfishness of the robbers.  And I couldn’t believe the arrogance of the victim.  She was in this large, unruly crowd in her beautiful full length mink coat.  Her neckline was purposely exposed on this cold night and she proudly displayed her diamond necklace with 20 or 30 diamonds worth thousands of dollars. And then, in the blink of an eye, it was gone.  And then she expected complete strangers to risk their lives to get her necklace back. And when we didn’t, she became angry with us.  And as I stewed over these last few minutes, I found myself becoming more and more angry with her.  She chose to call attention to herself.  She chose to display this beautiful necklace to this large crowd of the rich and the poor, the haves and the have- nots.  And the have- nots saw it and went for it.  She didn’t deserve it.  But she was careless and ostentatious and now she is the victim. But really, we were all victims because a cloud of anger and regret hung over all of us as others cheered for the end of one year and the hopes of a new year.

Put The Kettle ON

“PUT THE KETTLE ON”
My Mother's House
Philadelphia, PA
1962-1998

“I’ll miss the tea the most”, said Deb, my college friend.  We were at my mother’s grave site when Deb made this statement.  “I’ll miss the hours around the kitchen table, just talking and drinking tea.”

And I thought to myself, “So will I.”   While I had never taken these moments for granted, I never really thought about how lucky I was to have the pleasure of just sitting and talking with the good company of my good family.

At any time during the course of the day, my mother would call for the gathering of those who were interested to have a cup of tea with her.  But consistently, we had tea after dinner.  We ate dinner together every night and then we would clear the table and my mother would give the direction to “put the kettle on.”  It was large, maybe it held a gallon of water and the latch was taped with duct tape to make it easier to handle when it was hot.

There were usually lots of us at the table.  In addition to my parents and six siblings, my grandparents shared many, many dinners with us.  And from time to time, one of us would have invited a friend to dinner.  And frequently, the doorbell would ring and a neighborhood or two would meander in to the kitchen, my mother would gesture to those of us on the bench against the wall.  ‘Schooch down” she would say.  And we would scrunch together and make room for our neighbors who joined us at the table.

The water would boil, the kettle would whistle, tea mugs were scattered amongst us, a box of tea bags, spoons, sugar and milk appeared in the middle of the table. And then, one of us would start pouring cup after cup until everyone was served.

And then the stories of the day would begin. Being Irish, we had an unwritten rule, an understanding, that our stories didn’t have to be filled with facts.  There was really no concern for this.  They just had to be entertaining.  The stories had to be filled with great, vivid, humorous details. the truth was secondary, almost of little importance.

Sometimes we spoke individually and demanded everyone’s attention. Other times, multiple stories would be going on as small pockets of audiences had huddled together.

My father attempted to set the tone. “What have you done today to better the world”?  He asked this question every night.  And every night we laughed at him and dismissed him.  Instead we highlighted our days, our thoughts, and our focus.

Kathy spoke with annoyance about those of us who got in trouble at school.  This usually resulted in a reprimand to me from my mother.  Jimmy made fun of his teachers.  And my mother always took exception to this disregard for authority. Sharon told outrageous stories of classmates and their follies.  Christopher was quiet but spoke with pleasure of classmates who pulled one over on their teachers.  This too, resulted in a comment from my mother. Patricia spoke of her friendship.  I kept quiet because too much had already been disclosed about me.  Brian, much younger than the rest of us, struggled to find his voice amongst his loud siblings.

My grandparents spoke of their travels around the world and their lifelong friends.  My father, a lawyer, at the time, handled all of our disagreements as if he were a judge in a courthouse.  We would have to defend our position and present logic to our thinking. And no matter how rational we thought our argument was, we were always told that our adolescent thinking wouldn’t hold up in a court of law. My mother talked about art and her radio talk shows and injustices from her point of view.  She would critique the meal and then talk about tomorrow’s meal. And she would often use this time to present her list of what needed to be done around the house. Our neighbors told us of the happenings in their families. And our dinner guests usually said nothing; they just sat and tried to take it all in: this loud exchange of stories and random thoughts and sarcasm and laughter.

Sometimes, we would sit for an hour or more.  And then slowly, we wandered off, one by one, as obligations of homework called to us.  The last two or three who remained, stayed behind and cleaned up, leaving no trace of the conversations that had just occurred.

2/14/2011

Taking The Blind Kids to Church

Taking the Blind Kids to Church

Overwork School for the Blind

Our Lady of Lourdes Church

Philadelphia, PA

1966

I went to Catholic school.  So it was mandated that all of the school children go to mass together each Sunday.  We met in the chapel and each grade sat in its assigned area and roll was taken.  And if you were not at mass, it was expected that you arrive at school on Monday with a note from your mother with an acceptable explanation.

Our lay teachers weren’t there.  But all of the nuns were and they kept order with a firm hand and killer glaring looks.  No one was allowed to deviate from the expectation of sitting up straight, praying and kneeling.  No one, except the blind kids from the Overbrook School for the Blind.  They were pitied by the nuns.  So they were allowed to rock and occasionally, but not too frequently, grunt a noise. But when they strayed too far, a nun would comment, “Alright, that’s enough of that.  You can behave just like the rest of the children.  You’re blind remember, not retarded.” 

This did not usually stop the behavior because the blind kid was usually unaware that he was the target of the nun’s reprimand. Realizing this, she would have to go over and poke the kid to get his attention.  This would startle him for two reasons: (1) he had not seen her coming so he hadn’t anticipated her poke and (2) he wasn’t accustomed to being addressed in such a harsh manner.  So with no adult from the blind school to fend for him, he would coil up and try to make himself invisible from this unknown authority figure.

There was no adult from the blind school because we brought the kids to church on Sunday.   We, the sixth grades, were given that responsibility.  We were hand-picked by the nuns and it was our responsibility to be at the blind school every Sunday at 8:30 AM to walk the blind kids to church.

I remember being picked.  I was absolutely thrilled.  I was honored.  And I approached this responsibility with all the commitment as if I was protecting the President of the United States.  I made up my mind that no blind kid was going to fall or stumble under my care.

My first day of my new assignment was raining. It was cold and dark. It was midwinter.  But that didn’t matter to me.  I had important work to do that day.  I got up, put on my school uniform and walked proudly to the blind school.  I was on time, in uniform and ready to complete my assignments. I felt as if I should have saluted someone upon my arrival.

We met in the lobby which was completely dark. No one had turned on the lights.  We could barely see.  But then we could hear the kids coming down the hallway, their voices echoing and bouncing off the cement walls.  And I was filled with so much anticipation.

I was matched with Susie Hart.  She was a year older than me and a foot taller. She was very pretty and she held herself a little differently from the others.  She didn’t rock.  And she wore make-up. I liked her right away.

When it was time to leave, I commented to Suzie that is was hard to see because the lights weren’t on.  I was nervous about taking her down the steps in the dark.

“I don’t know why they don’t turn the light on.” I whined.

“Because we don’t need them,” she nonchalantly replied.

"Why?”

'We’re all blind.  We don’t need lights.”

Good point, I thought to myself. This thought had never entered the realm of my self-centeredness.

With that, she put my hand on her shoulder and confidently said, “Follow me; I’ll lead you out of here.” And out we went.

Tony: Even Tough Kids Get Bullied

Tony is 14, slightly built and caramel color.  His family is from Puerto Rico.  He stands out amongst his classmates who are predominately white, middle class and unworldly.  In this rural community, diversity is not embraced.  It is barely tolerated.

We are at the football dinner, celebrating the end of a successful season.  The seniors are roasting the underclassmen. One senior gets up and announces, “I know it is a little early but I wanted to be the first one to say to Tony, ‘Happy Father’s Day’.”  The crowd roars, to my horror.  How could anyone find it funny that a 14 year old boy is a father?  How sad to be in the midst of adolescence, trying to figure it out and just when life is complicated enough, you are now a father, at 14.

A few months later, I am in my office, long after school is finished for the day.  All the students are home and I am enjoying the quiet, going through piles of files on my desk.

Tony charges in through the open door, coming to a screeching halt.  He is out of breath, bent over and panting.

“Sorry. Sorry”, he says with some difficulty.

“You OK?”, I ask.

“Yea, yea”.  He straightens up now. I give him a glass of water.

“I just didn’t know where to go, so I ran here. I knew you’d be here”, he tells me.

“What’s the matter?”

“It’s that Jason.  He’s after me again”.

No clarification is needed.  Jason is a bully. Not much bigger that Tony, he is a kid with a quick temper and an intolerance for most people who offer him the slightest opposition of any sort.

“He called me a spic and punched me.  Said I was a dirty PR”.

"Where is he now", I demand.

“No, no, it’s OK.  Let it alone.  I can handle him if I have to.  I just ran away.  I had to”.

The look on my face must have shown my surprise.  I didn’t think Tony would ever walk away from a fight.

“I’m not afraid of him”, Tony continues, “I know I could beat him up if I had to.  But my mom told me if I get in one more fight, I am going to be grounded for two weeks and I have to babysit my daughter on Saturday.  So I can’t mess with him right now.  Know what I mean? I’m not afraid of him”.  But he says this in a tone of some shame.

He caught his breathe and checks to see if Jason is anywhere around.  Deciding that it was safe to venture out again, he leaves just as quickly as he entered.

I go back to my desk and sit down.  I reply the conversation in my head, the absurdity of it all bounces around like clashing cymbals.

 

That's Love

That’s Love
Philadelphia, PA
1990

“That’s love.  He’s in love. What do you expect”, said my father, whose once black hair was now all white.  His bride of 40 years listened on as he explained why his youngest son was not home for dinner. The boy, age 20 had just begun to experience the joys of being in love.

“He’s in love.  Did you ever see the Jacques Cousteau show about the mating seals in Alaska?  They climb over all sorts of terrain to get to their mates. That’s love.  You brother is in love.  I remember when your mother and I were first dating.  We’d stay up all night until 6:00 in the morning.  Then we’d go to church together.  I’d go home and get to bed and wouldn’t get up until 5:00 in the afternoon. The first meal of the day would be dinner”.

He ascends the steps and the stops to look at this watch. “Look at me now.  Now it’s an effort to stay up beyond the 7:00 news”.  He continues to climb the steps while his bride stays in the living room, working intently on her needlepoint.

Till Our Last Breath

Till Our Last Breath

Bryn Mawr, Pa

May, 1998

My mother was dying of cancer.  She probably only weighed 85 pounds. We all knew we didn’t have much time left, maybe a couple of days but no more than a week.  And so we spent our days around her bed, telling stories, remembering family moments and trying to suck in every last opportunity to say what we had to say before it was too late.

We were approaching Mother’s Day.  So there were lots of cards from my father, siblings, grandchildren, nieces, nephews, neighbors and a lifetime of friends. These lifelong friends were coming and going to say their goodbyes to my mother.  Sometimes there would be three or four of them.  Some were feeble and there were not enough seats for them.  And as they left the room, I realized that not only were many of these old friends saying goodbye to her, it was probably the last time I would see then as well.  So I wanted to take care of them.

I brought in a few chairs from the other room.  And then I added a card table or two for their drinks. And I added a box of tissues.  It was a little junky looking, but now people could now visit in some comfort.

“Get all this junk out of here”, my mother said demandingly.

“What,” I said, just as I was positioning myself squarely in one of the seats I had just brought in.

“The room looks like a lobby.  I don’t like the feng shui. Get all this furniture out of here.”

I tried to explain to her that I didn’t put it all here for appearance.  Her visitors needed a place to sit.  And “besides”, I told her, “You have bigger issues right now than the feng shui of your bedroom.”  I reminded her that she was dying.

“I don’t care; I don’t like it. It’s my room. Get this stuff out of my bedroom.”

This woman could exhaust me.  So I leaned forward, looked right at her and asked, “When are you going to stop bossing me around.”  And then I sat back in my chair.

She got up on her boney elbows, using all the strength she could muster in her sick condition.  She looked right at me and as clear and as confident as she was in her prime, she said to me, “When am I going to stop bossing you around?  I’ll tell you when.  When the first one of us takes her last breathe.”  And then she lay down again, smugly and proud of her comeback.

I got up, laughed, and moved the furniture back to the other room.

DRUM CIRCLE

I love the rhythm of the hand drum. The pounding of the drum reminds me of a heart beat and it soothes me.  It tempers me.  It calms me, causing me to slow down, to stop and listen and after a while, my heart beat steps in sync with the pounding of the drums.

When I travel, I often across a drumming circle.  I will be in some third world country and stumble in to a remote village with no electricity, no television, and no radio. And after a day’s work and an evening meal, the villagers will have to entertain themselves.  They wander to the village square with drums in hand and sit with their neighbors and drum and dance and drink and tell stories.  I have been invited to join the circle but have always declined because I have no sense of rhythm. I can’t keep a consistent beat.  So, after too many refusals with too many poor excuses, I decided to enroll in a course on hand drumming.  I am going to learn to drum so that I, too, can join the drum circles.

I sign up for a course at the Main Line Night School in Ardmore, an area that is predominately white and Jewish, two groups of people who do not fit my stereotype of drumming circle participants.   We meet at the local high school where others are taking French cooking, and photography and oil painting and Italian and Tai Chi.

Our instructor is Jonathon and I don’t find this out through his introduction because he never bothers to introduce himself.  I have to go back to the course catalog to get any information on Jonathon. Not only is Jonathon not interested in sharing any information about him, he has no interest in us.  He almost appears to be put out that he is here, almost embarrassed that this is now his most lucrative gig: teaching middle class white people how to drum.  From his perspective we may have all looked the same.  But we were very different.

There was the nervous woman who wanted to get it right, so she records every lesson so she could go home to practice.  There was the 20 year old pot head who looked as if he toked up right before every class so he could get it just right.  There was the man with the expensive suit and the expensive drum.  There were the three high schools girls who moved in a pack and shared two drums.  There was the grandmother with the Birkenstock sandals and handmade crew sock. There was the wall flower who snuck in each week and hid in the back of the room.  There was the woman with the long white hair and long white body who looked as if she danced in her younger days.  But that window was now closed on her.  But she still wanted to be an artist.

And there was me.  I came in each week just as class was about to start and most weeks, I dropped my drum once or twice along the way.  But there was no real need to worry about my instrument. I bought my drum for $14.99 at TJ Maxx and if it broke, I would just buy another one.

So Jonathon would start class with the same line each week, “ok, let’s get started.”  There was never a “hello” or “how you are” or “does anyone have any questions”. He didn’t even bother to take roll; he just got started.

“Ok, tonight we are going to learn the samba.”

He would demonstrate the rhythm and then we would practice.  Then after a few minutes, he would raise his hand in utter digest and announce, “No, no, it’s all wrong. We’re not at a funeral here people. Liven it up.  Feel it in your soul. This isn’t supposed to be sad.  It’s supposed to be sexy.”

And the woman recording the lesson would write this comment down for future reference.  And the rest of us would be a little offended because quite frankly, we were being as soulful and sexy as we got.  Did he forget that we were white people?

So we would start over and he would play a different part and then one by one we abandoned our part and subconsciously began playing his part.  And he would stop us again but only this time with heightened frustrations.

“Focus people.  Focus. Don’t play my part, play your part.”

So we would try again.  Only this time, he didn’t even bother to correct any of our mistakes. He saw us as a lost cause.  He just let us play it through so he could move on.

“Now we are going to do a salsa”.

 And he would demonstrate and then he would practice with us.  And then we would try to drum on our own.  We would start out strong but somehow, somewhere we wondered back to the samba and no one really noticed. But then Jonathon did and this was as unbelievable to him as speaking out loud and vulgarly in church is for theirs. To show his disappointment in us, he would turn the pages of his music with an exaggerated gesture.  And he would shake his head in disgust.

He just couldn’t believe it.  And he would stop us and reflect, pause for a second or two because he was speechless. Meanwhile we were clueless because we thought we sounded pretty good.  We were gelling.  We were jamming.  No one had yet realized that we had started out playing the salsa and then somehow collectively moved back to a samba and didn’t even recognize it.  I admit it was a little shameful when he finally brought it to our attention.

Sometimes he would tell us about the days when he toured with Flip Wilson or played with Chick Chorea.  I don’t think he told us these stories with any interest in connecting with us.  It seemed as if he told these stories because he was thinking to himself, “Can you believe I used to play with those people and now I am playing with these people.” And maybe some of these thoughts dropped out of his mouth accidently and he had to cover this up by telling us a story.

His stories were always short and one sided. He never asked us anything.  He just gave us a few facts about his past and then we got back on track.  And promptly at 900PM, the class ended. And just as he opened with a consistent statement, he closed with the same consistently.

 “OK for tonight. Remember to practice.  You will never be good if you don’t practice."

  There was never a" goodbye" or "have a nice week" or" be safe getting home".  We were just told that we had to practice to get better and not for our sake but for his.

And we would return each week to the same routine.  And we followed Jonathan’s lead on interactions or lack thereof. We did not speak to each other. We all came in singularly and sat in our same chairs and never spoke to each other. It was as if we were all invisible to each other.

One week, I decided to talk to Pothead. He came in, disheveled, high and raring to go.  I don’t know why I told him this because I didn’t mean it but I told him that he was the best in the class; he had the most soul. He ate up that compliment like these words were coming straight from Mickey Hart, percussion master of the world.

“Hey, thanks dude,” he said with a slur.  And now he was pumped and aching to start pounding.  He wanted to jam.

So when Jonathan started us on our first piece for the night, this kid played with his entire drug induced heart and soul.  He banged with so much gusto I was afraid he was going to stick his thumb right through the top of his drum.

It was too, too much for Jonathan because he stopped all of us.  “Whoa, whoa, people stop for a minute. let’s get something straight” he said in his monotone. And without pointing a finger at this guy, Jonathan starts telling a story about a guy he knows who thought he was good because he was high.  And we shouldn’t confuse the two and then he looked right at the pothead. But the lecture was lost because pot head had his eyes closed, playing the air drum.  Meanwhile, the mad recorder made notes on Jonathan’s comments.  I could read them: drugs do not enhance talent.

I asked a question every week in spite of his indifference.  I really asked more as a statement of defiance.  His complete lack of interaction with us annoyed me.  I hoped my question would spark some follow up comments from the others. But it didn’t. They just waited patiently in their folding chairs; hands gently resting on their drums, just waiting for instructions from Jonathan on when to start again.  Jonathan would answer out of obligation and then he would redirect his attention to the distasteful task sitting in front of him.

At the end of our 9 class, Jonathan announced that next week would be our last week. So we have been asked to give a 15 minute concert in the lobby. There would be punch and cookies.  And we would follow the violin students and the chorus would follow us.

So Jonathan was going to spend tonight reviewing three styles. We were only going to play these three styles and nothing else.  We were told that we should just practice those three so as to not confuse ourselves.  While he may have meant this as an insult, it helped us keep focused.  And the mad recorder made note of this and when she finished, he continues, “And loosen up when we play.  Look like we’re having fun.” He must have thought that by next week we could do both of these things: play and have fun. But right now, we could only do one or the other. We were not at the point where we could play without being extremely focused, without being methodical in our movements.  We weren’t fluid yet. But he wanted us to relax and enjoy ourselves.

I arrived the next week and saw Jonathan which delighted me because I had a sneaking suspicion that he wouldn’t show up.  I didn’t think he really wanted to be associated with us.

Once we had all gathered, we marched down to the lobby, had a few cookies and listened to the violinists. We were generous in our applauses because now we were musicians too and musicians have to support one another.

Then it was our turn to take the stage (actually it was just a lobby area with awful echoing acoustics). But we took our place and Jonathan inhaled deeply and held his breathe. He exhaled, raised his hand and began snapping his fingers.  He snapped the samba and we tapped to his rhyme.  He gave an introduction and he spoke with a tone of enthusiasm which I didn’t think was possible for him.  But he spoke pleasantly, like he was having fun with us. We played the first song and that drew a crowd.  There were maybe 20 people now listening to us. They were enthusiasm and seemed genuinely impressed with us.  They were generous with their applause.  And that was intoxicating. We got through the entire program and we loosen up with each song.

And when we were packing up, we all congratulated each other.  We were pretty pleased with ourselves. And we convince ourselves that we should take the course again next semester so we could play together again.  We spoke as if we were tight with one another.

When I looked around, Jonathan was gone. I stayed for the chorus.  And as I was leaving, I heard one white haired woman say to another woman, “Did you hear the last group, the drummers.  They were pretty good.”   I proudly picked up my drum, grabbed another cookie and went home.

The KKK Came to town

I woke up on Friday to an email from my friend, Jaye (below).  The Klan was coming to town.  So I went to see what they had to say.  The event was scary and sad.  There were about 50 people in the audience.  It appeared to me that the majority of people found the message and the messagers to be distasteful.  But it was also obvious that others were listening with intent and agreement.   As one woman said, "You know, you have groups like the AARP and all.  Why can't we have a group that celebrates us being white?  There aint nothing wrong with that?"

There was lots of bible quoting on both sides of the issue. Many people became Rhoads scholars on the issue of who Jesus loves and doesn't love.  Verses were quoted and counter-verses were shouted back.  Chaos of opposing opinions broke any semblance of a meeting into a hate fest.

It is so hard to believe that so many people can be so filled with fear and hate. 


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Bridget, a proud moment for Cecil County - you have a lot of work to do!

Wilmington News Journal 12/20/2013, Page A01

TOPSTORY CONFEDERATEWHITEKNIGHTS Klan group to gather Cecil County officials not supporting idea By Esteban Parra The News Journal A rebranded arm of the KKK is hold­ing a meeting tonight at the Cecil County Administration Building in Elkton, Md., attempting to attract new members. The Confederate White Knights of Ro­cusion sedale, Md., says on its website that its message is no longer based on skin color. But its criteria for membership de­mands that joiners not be affiliated with either Jewish or Muslim faiths. They also must be “100% heterosexual,” of Euro­pean heritage and born in America. “Join us for a peacful meeting and dis­on what we can all do to better our country,” states a message board on the Site of the group with ties to the Ku Klux Klan. (Peaceful and discussion were misspelled on the website). The group were granted permission meet inside the Administration Build­ing of the county seat in Elkton. But officials there are not embracing See KLAN, Page A2 Klan: History of hate groups in the region Continued from Page A1 for permission to use the group’s presence, es­pecially since Ku Klux Klan activity in Cecil had diminished in recent years. “A controversial meet­ing such as this will un­doubtedly draw attention to Cecil County,” said Bon­nie Grady, president and CEO of the Cecil County Chamber of Commerce. Community leaders have been focused on pro­jecting a positive message to draw new businesses to the county, Grady said. And while its unknown what this sort of meeting would do to discourage business or visitors, it’s not welcomed attention. “I don’t necessarily subscribe to the notion that any press is good press,” she said. Especial­ly since the group, accord­ing to their website, is not inclusive. “When they exclude en­tire segments of our soci­ety, whether they’re based on race, religion or any other factor, that’s not an inclusive group,” Grady said. “And Cecil County is striving to be inclusive and welcoming.” Members of the Con­federate White Knights could not reached for com­ment Thursday. But in an interview on The Cecil Whig website, CecilDaily.com, Richard Preston, imperial wizard of the 2-year-old group, said the meeting will focus on illegal immigration and President Barack Obama. “Barack Hussein Oba­ma is an illegal president,” Preston was quoted as say­ing. “He needs to be re­moved from office. We also want ‘Obamacare’ shut down. It’s against citi­zen’s rights.” “On top of that, we want the laws toughened on im­migration,” he added. “We’re flooded with illegal immigrants and our peo­ple can’t find jobs.” Family tradition The Klan was born af­ter the Civil War, when “night riders” terrorized blacks in the former Con­federate states. It was founded in 1866 in Pulaski, Tenn., but spread to differ­ent parts of the country, in­cluding Delaware and Maryland. But the roots that the KKK could not establish in Delaware grew deeply in Cecil County, including in Rising Sun, Md. That town in the western part of the county became the home base of the United Klans of America in 1960, drawing its membership from the families of Klansmen who had belonged to the old Elk Klan Klavern. Tradition is how most people end up in the Klan. That is how Cecil Coun­ty native Chester J. Doles was drawn into the Klan, where he rose to become imperial wizard of the Ter­ritorial Klans of America. Doles was a fifth-genera­tion Klansmen who even­tually directed the activ­ities of more than 400 Klansmen. But in 1993, Doles and Raymond Edwin Pierson, a county Klan leader, as­saulted a black man who was driving a pickup truck with a white woman. Doles was sentenced to seven years in prison. Pierson got 15. Doles was released in 1997 and returned to the Klan, but he soon left the group and moved to Geor­gia where he became a unit leader of the white su­premacist National Alli­ance. In March 2004, Doles was sentenced to five years and 10 months in federal prison, with no possibility of parole. Earlier marches Activities by deemed hate groups continue in both Delaware and Mary­land – usually peacefully. About 100 Ku Klux Klan members and other white supremacists marched through Newark in 1993 chanting “white power” while some of the 2,500 ob­servers threw snowballs and cursed them. Klan members peace­fully marched in Wilming­ton in 1997, where about six people dressed in robes rallied before a crowd of 300 onlookers. Residents near New­port reported in 2011 that the Klan was recruiting members by targeting predominantly white neighborhoods in the town. The Klan left cards in sandwich bags filled with rocks and threw them onto lawns and driveways. Also that year, a Sussex County couple who be­lieve racial and ethnic mi­norities should be ex­pelled from the country received state approval for their neo-Nazi group, National Socialist Free­dom Movement Nazi Par­ty, to adopt a rural road­way west of Lewes. Despite seemingly peaceful or positive acts, these people promote hate, Delaware State Uni­versity political science professor Samuel Hoff said. “That’s sort of revision­ist history to the max,” Hoff said. “You can dress it up different, sugarcoat it and put a smile on it, but the legacy of that group is such that it was formed for one reason and it remains and that is to promote the advocacy and superiority of one race over another.” How they’ve done this has been through mur­ders, violence and intimi­dation, he said. “Just because they do it with a smile, doesn’t mean that the message isn’t as dangerous as it always has been,” he said. Constitutional rights Confederate White Knights organizers told the Cecil County newspa­per they chose to hold the meeting in Cecil County because of its “conserva­tive mindset.” Al Wein, Cecil’s direc­tor of administration, cited Constitutional rea­sons the meeting room. “The First Amendment recognizes the right of or­ganizations such as the ap­plicant to peacefully as­semble and to engage in free speech, even when the message is offensive,” he said in a statement. “The First Amendment also prohibits local gov­ernment from discrimi­nating against an organi­zation’s right of free speech and assembly on public property, no matter how offensive the mes­sage may be. “As custodian of facili­ties owned by the citizens, the County has a legal duty to make those facilities available for the exercise of First Amendment rights, free from threats or violence. Peaceful and ordered use of the Coun­ty’s meeting room by the applicant is consistent with the exercise of legal­ly protected speech and assembly, and is not an en­dorsement of the appli­cant, or its message, by Cecil County, Md.” The Klan has success­fully sued when their civil rights were violated. A U.S. District Court Judge ruled in 1992 that Elkton town officials vio­lated the Klan’s First Amendment rights when they denied the group a pa­rade permit that year. Cecil County President Robert Hodge said he plans not to attend the meeting at the county­owned building because he did not want to give the group more publicity. “Don’t give them the time of day,” Hodge said. “Let them talk to them­selves.” He encouraged others to do the same. “If they don’t get pub­licity, if they don’t get con­troversy, then they are not going to survive,” he said. “I believe they live off of that – controversy and publicity. That’s what they are doing this for. That’s their goal.” Hodge doubted many people would show up at the event. The group held a “ral­ly” in September at Antie­tam National Battlefield near Sharpsburg, accord­ing to a Baltimore Sun re­port. Only eight Klansmen attended. Contact Esteban Parra at 324-2299 or eparra@delawareonline.com. Members of the Confederate White Knights hold a rally at the Antietam National Battlefield in September near Sharpsburg, Md. The group, which is meeting in Elkton, Md., today, held the rally to protest against the administration of President Barack Obama and the U.S. immigration policies. GETTY IMAGES The website of the Confederate White Knights, a Rosedale, Md., group with ties to the Ku Klux Klan. Counter-marchers express their opinions as the Klan walks down Main Street in Elkton in 1992. NEWS JOURNAL

Brian Crawford Beats His Mother

Brian Crawford

1981

When I was 25 I looked 12 and I know that because lots of people brought that to my attention.  I had just secured a position as a high school counselor in rural Pennsylvania.  And I could hardly wait to get started in my new professional career.  I was on my way to save the children of the world.  So when I arrived the first day, ready to be a professional, there were comments on how young I looked.  But I dismissed these comments. While I did look young, I had confidence and a little cockiness.  I had just earned my Master’s degree in counseling.  I was from the city which I thought gave me a credential of toughness.  And I had been to Europe twice so I was worldly.

I was working at a school where most of the faculty was older and tired but not old enough to retire.  So they were disinterested in the students and the students were disinterested in them.  My youthfulness was well received by the students.

It was a heady time for me.  Kids flocked to me and feed my ego. I loved my job.  I loved my work.  Kids confide in me.  They told me their secrets, their stories, their fears.  I was entrenched in their lives.

I started my job in August and already it was November.  Thanksgiving was right around the corner.  And I was looking forward to visiting with my family to tell them about my good fortune.

So when Mrs. Crawford came in to see me, I was quick to talk to her about the upcoming holiday and family. She was hesitant in responding to me.  And she was teary.  She had not come in to talk to me about the joy of family.  She was nervous, jumpy.  And I realized she hadn’t said a word yet.

She sat down beside me and breathlessly said, “I need your help.  I didn’t know who to come to.  He doesn’t like anyone but he told me that he talked to you last week.”  She is now speaking rapidly, but in a whisper. She is talking about Brian, her son.  He is a senior and I did meet with him last week.  He seemed angry, like a simmer volcano.  He didn’t speak much.  But his anger filled the room, I remember.

Most of the students who came to see me welcomed the opportunity to talk about themselves.  I would allot a whole class period (42 minutes) to each student to talk, uninterrupted, without judgment.  And most students came in through the door, yakking, taking a seat and still taking as I ushered them out after 42 minutes.  But Brian had to be prodded to come see me.  He had missed three previous appointments.  But last week, I was able to track him down and get him in to talk about his graduation plans which were null.  He had absolute no idea what he wanted to do. He talked a little bit about guns and joining the military and killing people.  And then he laughed and watched my reaction.  And then I asked him what he liked to do outside of school.  He liked to hunt, to shoot at squirrels off his back porch.  While I was new to this world of hunting, I hadn’t heard of any student who shot animals just for the sport of it.

When Brian left my office after 15 minutes, I was relieved.  I didn’t like his presence.  I remember opening the window and airing out the room.  His smell of stale cigarettes and stale clothing lingered in the air. His anger hung in the air as well.

So it took me by surprise when his mother mentioned that he had told her about our conversation.
 “I really need your help” she said as she took off her jacket.  She was wearing short sleeves.  She turned and revealed her left arm.  It was swollen and bruised.  It almost looked broken.

She started to cry in shame. “Brian did this to me. He hit me with a spade.  He told me he would do it again. And I am afraid of him.  I’m afraid to be home with him for so long over the Thanksgiving holiday.  He’s going to hurt me again, I know it.  I need your help.  You have to get him to stop hitting me.”

I was weak at the knees.  I had to sit down; never, never could I have imagined that anyone would hit his mother.  I would never, absolutely never hit my mother.  I never knew anyone who touched his mother.  I didn’t know anyone who threatened to touch her mother.  Now, here was a woman, standing before me, humiliated and begging for my help.  And I was really afraid.  And I had no clue as to what to do.

She was now sobbing.  Her dirty little secret was out and she had surrendered herself to me to fix the problem.  So what the hell was I going to do?  I had no life experience to call on right now.  I had no words, no plan to give her. Then it came to me.  Get help.  Call on someone else.  So I got up, told her I would be right back and I went next door to my colleague.

Ken was the other counselor and he was also the football coach.  And Brian was on the team.  So he knew Brian.  And he wasn’t surprised to hear what Brian had done.  “He is one angry dude”, Ken said, shaking his head.  “Can you imagine hitting your own mother"?

Good, I wasn’t alone in my absolute disbelief.  I wasn’t alone in how horrified I was.

“What I should do” I begged. And at this point, I was really begging to turn this whole messy situation over to Ken.  I was lost in my own naiveté, my own lack of experience, my own unworldliness.  I realized I was just a kid trying to be an adult.

“Get him down here.  We’ll shame him.  You don’t hit your mother. We’ll call him on it.”

So we called to his classroom and asked the teacher to send him to my office.  In the meantime, I brought Ken over to my office and introduced him to the mother.  They both knew each other because of football and she seemed relieved to have Ken’s support as well.

There was a knock on the door and my heart raced.  The secretary announced that Brian had arrived.  I stood in front of the mother to block her from Brian’s view.  I didn’t think he would come in if he saw her.  And as soon as he was inside my office, I closed the door and stood in front of the door, leaving no room for Brian to bolt out of there.

I stepped aside and revealed his mother, a large woman who now seemed so small and defenseless, so damaged, almost childlike. Brian immediately welded up in anger, his ears and neck becoming inflamed.  He clenched his teeth and made a fist.  Tension filled the air.

“Sit down” Ken said. Brian didn’t comply.

So Ken raised his voice ever so slightly and gave the command again, “Sit down I said.”

And this time, Brian complied. Ken turned to Mrs. Crawford, his mother and demanded, “Look at her.” He pointed to her bruised arm.

Brian didn’t lift his head but I could see him lift his eyes and throw an angry glance at her.  She was trembling.  And so was I.  At any moment, he could explode and we would all be hurt, one way or another.

Ken continued,  ”this is your mother.  And you hit her.  And this will be the last time you hit her.  Men do not hit their mothers.  It’s wrong. And I don’t let anyone who hurts their mothers play on my football team.  If you hit her again, I am throwing you off the team.  Do you understand me?”

Brian nodded, meekly, broken, humiliated, angrily.

“We are going to check on you”, Ken continued.  “We are going to call your mother every week; if she tells us that you have touched her, you are off the team immediately.  And if you yell at her for coming here today, you are off the team.  Do you understand me? Men do not hit their mothers.  This stops today.”

Brian nodded again.  The coach asked him if he had anything to say to his mother.  Brian shook his head “No”. The coach asked if he wanted to apologize and to my horror, Brian shook his head “no”.  The only glimmer of hope came when Ken asked, “do I have your word that you won’t hit your mother again.”  And he shook his head “yes”.  The mother let out a sigh of relief and Ken dismissed Brian to go back to class.  I wanted to go home, I was worn out.

The mother got up and thanked both of us.  She was filled with relief and I was afraid that this was just temporary relief.  Brian was too much of a time bomb. How could she be so confident that it won’t happen again?

But she left, grateful and lighter than when he had come in half an hour ago. I did check on her after Thanksgiving. He didn’t hit her. And she spoke as if that dark side of him was over.

The next day, I drove home to my family for our Thanksgiving dinner.  As I looked around the room, candles were flickering on the table.  Food was being passed around.  There was a loud clatter of lively conversation.  My father said grace and enumerated our blessings. There was too much food.  I found myself staring at my parents and siblings and my grandmother, all of us enjoying each other’s company.  For a moment, I thought of my grandfather and wished that he was here with us.  Then I stopped myself.  “No”, I told myself, not this year, this day is not a day of regret; it’s a day to be thankful for that I have”. 

I gaze  back at my mother. And I looked at her so intensely that day, so full of joy.  I choked up, fought back tears. I was so grateful that I wasn’t plagued with so much rage. Grateful that we could sit at the table, eat a meal and be filled with the joy of each other’s company. Up to this point, I had taken so much of my good fortune for granted.  But not today.  The peace that permeated my family overwhelmed me with gratitude.

I imaged Brian’s  Thanksgiving dinner. I imagined no one talking to one another.  No one happy to be with the other. The mother with her bruised arm.  Did Brian feel remorse or shame on this day of thanks?

Then I looked around my dining room again.  I had a lot to be thankful for today.